Funny Old World
by Ivytree
Summary: Spike, Captain Jack, and Yvette spend a night on the town. What can the mysterious Koomah tell Spike and Jack? And who's that lurking in the shadows?
1. Part One

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: A Caribbean adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World" Part One  
  
  
  
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"'Ave another, mate. Plenty for everyone."  
  
"Thansh. I mean, thanks," Spike said, extending a hand for the bottle with an uncoordinated lurch. "Don't mind if I do." He took a long pull of the best (and the strongest) rum he'd ever tasted, and gasped at the burnt sugar sting. Rum wasn't his favorite tipple, as a rule, but this was something special. And he needed refreshment. After all, it wasn't every day he dropped out of the Ether—or wherever the blazing Hades it was he'd been—straight onto the glimmering sands of a palm-studded tropical island. It was a situation he wouldn't hesitate to describe as a bit nerve-wracking.  
  
"So," he said, defeated in an attempt to push himself upright by the soft white sand shifting beneath his hands, "Wash—I mean, what's all this stuff doing here, anyway? I mean, on a desert island. This is a desert island, right?"  
  
"'S'right, matey. We're marooned, that's what we are," a husky voice replied. It had been nighttime when Spike tumbled onto the beach, and the moon was just peeping over the horizon. After taking a moment to gain his bearings, he had made a short reconnoiter and discovered a solitary, rather outlandishly dressed figure snoozing under a palm tree. A rum-flagon was clutched in the stranger's fist, and beside him was a cache of several more bottles, which he seemed happy to share upon awakening.  
  
Now Spike watched with admiration as his companion, stretched bonelessly on the sand at full length, poured a stream of rum straight down his throat without a cough or gurgle. Now, that was professional drinking. "Used to be smugglers…" he continued, waving a slack arm "…all 'round here. They left hogsheads, barrels, bottles—gallons of the stuff."  
  
"Yeah, but that must have been..." Spike rubbed his forehead, which was beginning to tingle with unaccustomed warmth. "I mean to say, that must have been quite a while ago. No ruff, rug, run…" he halted, concentrated, and continued, enunciating precisely, "…RUM smugglers now."  
  
The island's only other occupant appeared to take a certain amount of umbrage at this statement, and wriggled up onto his elbows. "What d'you mean, no rum strugglers, I mean, smugglers, now? Why the 'ell not, eh? Everyone likes rum. 'S'human nature."  
  
"Yeah, very true, but it's perfectly legal, right? No need to smuggle. Just pop into a boozer or a grog shop, hand over the hard-earned, and Bob's yer uncle."  
  
"What? Isn't the 'umble working man's grog cruelly taxed by avaricious bigwigs?"  
  
"Not so much, no."  
  
His new friend stared at him with unblinking, kohl-rimmed dark eyes. "Well, that's one for the books. Never thought they'd give that up." Swaying slightly, he appeared to think it over. "What's good contraband, then? Must be some way to make money outthinking the King's navy."  
  
"King's navy?" Now it was Spike's turn to stare. "Not much of a navy now, mate. And it's a queen, y'know, not a king, nowadays. 'Least, it was the last time I checked."  
  
"Queen?" His comrade sat up too fast, and wobbled precariously. "Queen who, when she's at 'ome? It's not that dozy Anne, is it?"  
  
"Elizabeth."  
  
There was a pause. "I thought we 'ad one of those. Didn't we?"  
  
"Well, so we did. This one's Queen Elizabeth the Second. Seems like a decent enough old girl. Not so strong on persecuting the lower orders." Suddenly Spike began to feel quite homesick. The only solution to that seemed to be to have another drink.  
  
"Fancy that, now." The pirate—even in his own rather confused condition, Spike was able to deduce that his new pal was a pirate—scratched a stubbled cheek. Turning his smoky gaze on Spike, he continued, "Lemme ask you something, if it's not a liberty—just how long was I asleep under that tree, before you arrived so sudden-like?"  
  
Spike reached for the bottle again. He had a feeling that answering that question would present a knotty problem for both of them. "Well, when I left this world, if that's the word…"  
  
"I'm not quite sure I follow you there, matey—'left this world'?"  
  
"I died, didn't I? For the second time, I might add. Turned to ash. Poof!" He illustrated his recent demise with a dramatic gesture. "Or, it was more like 'whoosh,' actually. A remarkably loud 'whoosh.' With elaborate flame effects, price no object."  
  
"For the 'second time'?" Eyes narrowing, the pirate poked Spike hard in the chest with a slender, beringed, and very dirty index finger.  
  
"Ow!" Spike protested.  
  
"You're not dead now, though, are you? 'Cause 'ouch,' and that, definitely means you're not dead, you can take my word for it."  
  
"Think not?" Spike said hopefully. "I was beginning to wonder."  
  
"No. I 'ave been, in my time, y'know. Been a ghost, anyway, for a bit. I'll admit, it's interesting, at first; but then it gets very, very dull. First of all, you can't get drunk when you're a ghost—or eat, or dally, or feel the sun or the sea or the wind, or even get a decent bit of kip."  
  
Spike shuddered, and took another pull at the bottle. He'd never heard a better description of hell. "Not bloody worth it, is it?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't say so." The pirate drank, too. "'S'worse than prison. In fact, it's the only thing worse than prison."  
  
"So, anyway, we're not dead. That's one thing in our favor, I s'pose."  
  
"And if we're not dead—and don't want to be—what we've got to do is get off this bloody island, pronto. Because I don't know if you noticed it, but this place is entirely barren, apart from a palm or two."  
  
"Right." Spike rubbed his hands over his face. "How do we do that, exactly? Keeping in mind that I have no idea where we are."  
  
"We're on one of the southernmost Grenadine Islands, in the Caribbean Sea." The pirate squinted at the moonlit horizon. "I'm not precisely sure which one, to be honest."  
  
"Really?" Spike looked around at the pristine beach, gently waving palms, and gloriously star-spangled night sky. "Been all over the world, but I've never been here before. Nice. Except for the total lack of food, water, or shelter, I mean." Now that he thought of it, shelter was getting to be a pretty important consideration, since it wouldn't be long before dawn broke. He wondered if this was a good time to mention that he was a vampire. He was just opening his mouth to speak—after just one more swallow of rum—when his companion's spirits-hoarsened voice sounded again.  
  
"What's your name, matey, if it's not too bold a question?"  
  
"Spike."  
  
"Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service…" here a disconcerting, gold-embellished grin crossed the pirate's face "…for the moment, at any rate." With a rather grand gesture, he extended a grubby hand, and Spike clasped it with his own. "I'm happy to make your acquaintance. Just 'Spike,' is it?"  
  
Spike cleared his throat. "Well, at one time I went by 'William the Bloody,' but nowadays it's plain Spike. Bit more modern, you know? No frills."  
  
"'William the Bloody'? I don't think I've heard of you." For some reason, this fact seemed to afford Captain Jack some satisfaction. "Pirate?"  
  
"Not exactly." Well, it's now or never, Spike thought. "Vampire."  
  
"Oh, of course—vampire." Quick amusement lit the captain's eyes. "Pull the other one, mate, it's got bells on."  
  
"No, really. Look." Spike struggled to focus enough to assume his vamp-face, but it kept slipping away. Drat that rum. "Wait a minute, just wait one minute," he grumbled. On the other hand, maybe another drink would help. He took a long pull at the bottle, emptying it, in fact, and tried to think of something annoying, like Xander, or Riley, or Wood… or Angel. Aha! He turned triumphantly to his companion. "There! Now look!"  
  
Captain Jack recoiled as swiftly a cobra's strike in reverse; but after a taut, still moment, he leaned forward again, gazing intently at Spike's fangs and ridges. Spike actually saw his own eyes, glinting gold, reflected in the pirate's black ones.  
  
"Blow me down," Jack murmured. "So you are."  
  
"And I'm not exactly looking forward to the lovely tropical sunrise I understand you feature in these parts."  
  
Jack staggered to his feet and beckoned with an uncoordinated arm. "Follow me," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. Part Two

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World" Part Two  
  
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"All we have here," Jack pointed out, "is barrels and kegs, most of 'em empty."  
  
They had spent the daylight hours in a snug underground storage chamber left, presumably, by long vanished freebooters, snoring off the mists of rum. Now the sun dipped below the horizon once more, and the time had come to plan their escape.  
  
"But the barrels are wood, so they float, don't they?" Spike asked. "I'll bust 'em up, and we can make a raft, right? Got any rope?"   
  
"No, I haven't any rope," Jack replied, with some exasperation. "I haven't any rope, I haven't any mast, I haven't any oars, and I haven't a sail. If I did 'ave any of those useful articles, I wouldn't be here, would I?" He halted abruptly, and Spike thought he saw a flash of calculation cross his face. But then his attention seemed to turn back to the rope problem. "For a raft, now, we'll have to collect some vines or such-like, from amongst the trees…"  
  
"That could take days. What about this?" Spike suggested, indicating the colorful silk sash wrapped around the pirate's middle.  
  
"I think not. A souvenir of me glorious days as a tribal chieftain, is what that is," Jack replied, drawing himself up with hauteur. "It's of great sentimental value, in point of fact, and I don't really fancy parting with it."  
  
"Listen, mate, you won't fancy parting with every drop of blood in your body if I should happen to come over peckish, either," Spike warned, folding his arms. "Vampire, remember?"  
  
No need to mention his soul, whose continued presence was confirmed by the slight pang of conscience Spike felt on merely uttering the threat. Of course, the soul would (probably) prevent him from actually acting on his hunger, however desperate he became—but Captain Jack didn't know that.  
  
"You make an interesting point," Jack said, fingering his braided beard. "I hadn't quite thought of it that light. I s'pose I should sacrifice for the greater good; after all, it's the right thing to do, isn't it?" Somehow, Spike found this explanation less than convincing, but Jack began untying the sash nevertheless.  
  
"I've got a belt we can use," Spike offered. It was the least he could do, if his companion was willing to forfeit his own special bits and bobs. The captain obviously paid attention to his 'look;' Spike could understand that. But survival was survival.  
  
Captain Jack measured the fabric with outstretched arms. To Spike's inexpert eye it seemed to be a useful length, at least ten feet, which could be torn into several strips. Jack folded the ragged silk carefully, and then turned to gaze at Spike, speculation in his eyes.  
  
"I believe you've got more than your belt to offer, matey," he suggested in an insinuating voice, with a sideways tilt of the head that sent the many beads, feathers, coins, bones, and other ornaments tied in his hair a-clinking. "Like I said, we need a sail, too, don't we? And that's a nice coat you're wearing." Suddenly he grinned. "Savvy?"  
  
  
  
  
  
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"…So, there she sat on a rock, and never a word would she utter," Captain Jack said, "though she'd twitch the end of her tail like a cat whenever she got peevish."  
  
"And what did you do to make her peevish?" Spike asked, almost despite himself. Frankly, he wasn't sure he believed this story; he knew quite well how to dress a tall tale in convincing details. He'd done it himself a thousand times. On the other hand, Jack's capricious mermaid sounded like a pretty true to life female…  
  
"Well, as you might imagine, her coming from the bottom of the sea, and all, she 'ad no use for fire. She ate whatever she caught raw, and she hated it when I cooked the fish she brought me. All it took was one sight of me campfire and off she'd go, in a right passion, just like any vexed wench, with her tail wiggling and waggling and thrashing up a foam. Though, mind you, it never lasted for long—next morning I'd go back to the beach, and there she'd be, perched on her rock, with her red-gold hair bright as the sunrise and her blue eyes sparkling like the sea, as fine a lady as any you'd see in Buckin'am Palace itself. Though a good bit quieter, o'course, due to the not-speaking part." Jack's tone grew fond. "She was a sweet-natured lass, that one, if all were told. Never held a grudge…"  
  
A trail of moonlight glittered with almost starry brilliance across the indigo water. Warm sea-breezes puffed against Spike's back, setting strands of his hair to tickling his forehead. But as beautiful as the night was, he couldn't help feeling that the creaks emitted by their makeshift barrel-and-sash raft sounded ominous, and the swell of the waves made keeping his balance problematical. Tightening his grip on Jack's sacrificed keepsake, now serving to lash several rum kegs together, Spike tried to concentrate on his new friend's yarns of narrow escapes, enchanted treasure, mermaids, and ghost ships (though that one he did NOT believe). But he felt curiously detached and indecisive, almost as if he'd hit his head when he landed on the beach, though he didn't recall doing so. Admittedly, this could be ascribed in part to the quantity of raw rum he'd consumed. Still, he usually held his liquor better than that.  
  
At the same time, he couldn't help noticing a remarkable change in his comrade. As soon as Captain Jack hit the water, as it were, his odd careening ceased, and he stood calm, upright, and rock-solid on his feet. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, too, steering their craft by what seemed to Spike like minute adjustments of the all-too-familiar black leather sail. This was mounted on a jury-rigged mast of palm branches bound tightly together with vines, thanks to the application of Spike's super-strength and Jack's remarkable knot-tying ability. Occasionally Jack would glance at an odd-looking compass drawn from his belt, and now and then Spike would have sworn he heard the captain singing to himself, although he couldn't make out the words. But his friend seemed to know exactly where they were and where they were going.  
  
"How long, now?" Spike asked, with a glance at the sky. It was after midnight, and the thought of being out on the open ocean near sunrise was beginning to make him uneasy.  
  
"No worries, mate; everything's hunky-dory. This craft will get us ashore in St. Vincent—quite a big island—within an hour or two. There we'll find friendly natives, chow, grog, trade, and a smallish port," Jack answered cheerfully. "Then we'll have a sit-down and see what's what, I suppose, seeing as how we've got quite a number of what you might call unanswered questions."  
  
Spike was silent. He had unanswered questions, all right.  
  
From the first, he had assumed that he landed on the island, for whatever inexplicable reason, relatively shortly after his last incineration. He felt no sense of time's passage; all he remembered was the final white-hot blaze of light, then a peaceful, muffling blackness, then a feeling of falling, and finally a bumpy landing on white sand. But since his arrival, he'd seen nothing at all that belonged to the 21st century—not an airplane, not a ship, not a cigarette butt, not even a scrap of discarded plastic. That seemed unlikely, to say the least. Wasn't the glorious Caribbean a year-round tourist playground? Then where was the evidence of said tourists?  
  
With a growing sense of disquiet, he wondered just what century he had dropped into. Could he have actually gone back in time? If this was Captain Jack's native era, so to speak… well, that was the 17th century or so, well before Spike was born, wasn't it? Wouldn't that fact cause a paradox or something? And if this wasn't Jack's era, what the devil was Jack doing in the present? If this was, in fact, the past, could Spike himself get back to his own time? Did he want to get back? He felt as though he'd watched just enough Star Trek to be confused by the whole concept of time travel, but not enough to understand any of it.  
  
Spike sighed. Then again, who was he, a vampire risen from the grave for the second time, so to speak, to ask questions? If existence made sense, he would have been dust long ago. All he could do was take it as it came, he supposed.  
  
A swell tossed their craft, and the water grew choppy. Spike took a firmer grip on his mooring. It wasn't that he couldn't swim—he could swim all the way to this port they were headed toward, whatever it was, if he had to. But he certainly didn't want to—the thought of exhausted, aching muscles and lungfuls of sea water wasn't exactly inviting. Fortunately, the rough sea calmed again after few minutes, and he massaged the back of his neck with one hand. Right now he really, really wished he had a cigarette.  
  
"You must have seen a few things worth seeing, in your travels," Captain Jack piped up, cutting short Spike's reverie. "Been 'round the world, have you? Ever been to Singapore?"  
  
"Matter of fact, I have. We—I—spent quite a few years in the East. China, India, Siam, Burma, Java…" He hadn't thought of those days in a long, long time. They weren't what he'd call good times, exactly, at least not from his present perspective, but he'd certainly learned a lot.  
  
"In all the world, what's your favorite port of call?"  
  
Spike considered. "Japan, I think," he answered finally. "Beautiful. Poetic. Very well organized. Very law-abiding."  
  
"Now, that's unexpected; I'd have thought that in your, uh, line of work, you'd rather prefer violence, upheaval, and a nice spot of bloodshed, as you might say."  
  
"Well, in those days, we—I—liked to lay low," Spike said thoughtfully. "It was easier to strike if they weren't expecting an attack, if you know what I mean. They never knew what hit 'em, and there wasn't anything they could do about it, either."  
  
"I know exactly what you mean. An excellent tactic, used it meself—when I sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot, for instance. Infiltration, that's the ticket. Bloodshed's dangerous, messy, and causes hard feelings all around. Much better to just take what you want when the law-abiding folk are all unaware, and disappear before they catch on."  
  
"But now…"  
  
"Now?"  
  
"To tell you the truth, I don't kill people anymore," Spike said, in a rush of confidence.  
  
The pirate shot him a sidelong glance. "Well, I have to say that's welcome news from my point of view, but it's a bit startling, all the same. Why don't you?"  
  
"I've got a soul now." There. It was out.  
  
"So you're a vampire with a soul, then, are you?" Captain Jack inquired politely, quite unfazed. "Is there a lot of that about?"  
  
"No," Spike said. "There's just one other."  
  
"Hmm." Serenely riding out another swell, Jack pulled at his beard in a meditative fashion. "Well, I'll say this for you, William the Bloody; you're full of surprises. However does a such a cataclysm happen to a self-respecting vampire like yourself?"  
  
Spike looked up at his companion coolly. Now HE had a tale to relate.  
  
"Ever hear tell of the Slayer?" he asked.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. Part Three

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World" Part Three  
  
  
  
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Captain Jack and Spike beached their raft on smooth, black sands without incident, and proceeded to dismantle it, as Jack wanted his sash back. Spike donned his leather coat, which seemed undamaged by sea-spray, and patted himself down, feeling a certain lump in the zippered inner breast pocket with relief.  
  
"Well," Jack said, winding layer after layer of wet, torn silk around his waist, "This will be the south side of the island, and there's a path through these trees leading to a road up yonder. I suggest we have ourselves a look-see. We shouldn't encounter any difficulties—natives in these parts are fine people." Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he turned and started up the trail. "Very lovely and affectionate ladies, I might add, if you've a fancy to forget your troubles…"  
  
"I'm sure they're very nice," Spike said, falling into step beside him, digging his hands in his pockets, "but I don't want to forget."  
  
"I quite understand you, mate. Sore of heart is what you are. Now, I myself am of the school that believes in getting right back on the 'orse once you're thrown, but I can see your point of view, as well."  
  
Side by side, they proceeded northward without further speech. Moonlight, filtered by tall palms and tree ferns, striped the pathway ahead. Sea breezes, salt-scented and balmy, and touched with the sweet aroma of tropical flowers, rustled through the foliage. Pebbles and debris crunched beneath their boots, and the occasional caws, hoots, and trills of diverse wildlife echoed from the forest.   
  
After an easy half mile, they came to a dirt road stretching east to west. Peering first in one direction, and then the other, Spike saw no sign of a town or other settlement. But Jack gestured toward the left.  
  
"If my recollection is accurate—and it almost always is—the village is this way," he said.  
  
"All right," Spike agreed.  
  
They turned down an unpaved road, rutted by innumerable cartwheels.  
  
  
  
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A dog barked as they neared a cluster of whitewashed mud brick huts, roofed with palm fronds, which lined the narrow street. No lights showed from the windows or doors. Captain Jack halted.  
  
"This'll be where the poorer folks reside," he whispered. "No use putting the wind up them at this hour, eh? We'd best step quiet-like." He moved with surprising stealth to the side of the road, and signaled to Spike to follow.  
  
"Where are we going?" Spike asked, in an undertone.  
  
"There's a certain someone close by who will be ever so glad to see me," Jack assured him. "Just a few houses down…"  
  
He led the way behind the dwellings, where open areas had been hacked out of the jungle. These were set with small kitchen garden plots and dotted with hoes, rakes, and other simple implements; small sheds and rudely fenced enclosures housed chickens, goats, pigs, donkeys, and the occasional black cow. Spike knew that he himself could slip past the livestock noiselessly enough to avoid rousing them, but he was impressed to find that Jack could, too. They wound a snakelike course through four or five properties, until Jack motioned a halt.   
  
"Mind the bean patch," he said over his shoulder. Then he drew Spike close to the rear of one well-kept house, and hunkered down with his back flat against the wall beneath an open window. "Listen, matey—am I correct in assuming that, among your many vampire talents, you can see in the dark?"  
  
"Just about."  
  
"Then just have a peep through that window, if you would, and see if the charming lady inside is sleeping alone tonight."  
  
"I can tell you that right now," Spike said.  
  
Captain Jack looked taken aback, for almost the first time since Spike had met him. Then his expression grew exceedingly thoughtful.  
  
"You can see through walls?" he said. "That particular skill could come in very handy indeed, I hope you realize that."  
  
Spike grinned. He appreciated the way Jack's mind worked—crooked as a corkscrew. "Sorry, but no, mate; it's not that. I can smell her, can't I? Hear her heartbeat. She's alone, all right. Though she's got a tomcat," he added. "I can smell him, too."  
  
"Well, no worries there; I know that cat. He responds to bribery, the greedy old brute." Jack rose, and, leaning his folded arms on the windowsill, addressed the sleeping inhabitant within.  
  
"Bon maten, Yvette min!" he called, in a low tone. "Reveyé! Levé! Wakey, wakey, darlin'."  
  
There was a rustle, and a muted crash from inside the room.  
  
"Jack?" a woman's voice said. "C'est vreman Jack?" Presumably, this was Yvette.  
  
"None other," Jack said. "Louvri la pot, my lovely. Let us in."  
  
Spike heard the pad of bare feet across an uncarpeted floor (as well as the soft thud of a well-fed tomcat decending from the bed). Yvette seemed to pause for a moment; there came a rattle as the inner bar was lifted, and the door flew open with some vigor. In the entrance stood a strikingly attractive young woman, with enormous black eyes and a tumble of dusky curls falling about her shoulders. She was dressed in a thin linen nightgown with a low neck and sleeves gathered about the elbow, and her left hand held up a sputtering rushlight. Spike noted warily that the other hand was balled into a fist, and firmly planted on her hip.  
  
"Yvette! Cheri!" Jack said, holding his arms open wide.  
  
"Chen!" Yvette snapped. "Kochon!"  
  
She spoke the local patois with a charming lilt to her voice—but somehow these did not seem to be words of welcome. With the prudence of long experience, Spike took a step back a moment before the girl aimed a roundhouse blow straight at Jack's head, which struck with a resounding smack.   
  
"Mantlé! Djoté!" she spat, and actually stamped her foot.   
  
"Now, sweetheart, I meant to come back, I swear I did, but fortune intervened," Jack cajoled, reaching for her again. Suddenly, her fury seemed to collapse, and she burst into tears, flinging her arms around his neck with such force that it caused him to stagger back, and sent the rushlight flying. Spike bent to pick it up.  
  
"Sovaj," Yvette sniffled into Jack's collar, punching his arm for emphasis. "Volé…"  
  
"There, there," Jack soothed, patting her shoulder. "'S'all water under the bridge, isn't it, eh? And here I am again, turned up like a bad penny."  
  
As the tender scene proceeded, Spike felt a warm, heavy weight against his ankle. He looked down, and met the judicious yellow gaze of a burly, grey-striped tomcat, who stared unblinkingly up at him, seeming to expect some sort of recompense for his interrupted night's sleep. From his bulk, it was apparent that Mademoiselle Yvette's suitors were in the habit of buying him off.  
  
"Sorry, mate, I've nothing bribe-worthy with me at the moment," Spike said, reaching down to let the cat sniff his fingers. Cats were among the few animals that actually seemed to like vampires, despite the lack of body heat. "Perhaps later we can split a rat, though, all right?"  
  
  
  
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"Now, then," Captain Jack said, "Perhaps we'd best try to determine just where we stand. To tell you the truth, when you turned up, I wondered if I'd been asleep under that tree for a hundred years—I've heard of such things, in legends and tales. A bit hard to swallow, I'll grant you, but who can say, eh? But it seems like it's the other way 'round, doesn't it? You're the one who's out of your proper setting."  
  
"Too right," Spike said. "This is not my time and not my place."  
  
They sat at an unfinished wooden table in Yvette's one-roomed residence, which was dimly lit by a clay tallow lamp. After about ten minutes of shameless wheedling from Jack, the mistress of the house had finally begun to smile, and Spike furthered her surrender by taking her hand and kissing it when introduced, saying "Enchanté, madame," which made her toss her ringlets and laugh aloud.   
  
She invited them both inside with every appearance of restored cheer, and plied them with wooden bowls of spicy goat stew, a stack of soft bread, some ripe papayas, and even a bottle of Spanish wine. The cat sat at their feet as they devoured their meal, tail wrapped around his substantial hindquarters, wearing an expectant golden glare.  
  
"His name is Diablo," Yvette explained fondly, offering her pet a tidbit. "He is death to mouses, but also a great sneak thief. What is more, he has very many children, all over the island." Reflecting on this admiring description of the cat's character, Spike could only conclude that Yvette's tastes in men and pets were remarkably similar.  
  
"Devil by name and devil by nature, if you ask me," muttered Jack, who appeared to have unresolved issues with the tomcat. Diablo ignored him with studied insolence. Spike, however, responded to the appeal of a fellow predator, and offered the animal bits of goat meat from time to time, which he accepted as if it were no more than his due.   
  
After a few minutes, Yvette yawned prettily, and, with an unobtrusive touch to Jack's shoulder, retired to the curtained corner where her bed presumably stood, saying only, "Bon nuit, 'sieur Spike," with a pleasant smile and nod. Jack didn't speak, but followed her retreat with enigmatic eyes before returning to his wine. Then he put down his tin mug, pushed his plate aside, and looked with atypical candor at Spike.  
  
"So, my friend," he said, "Cards on the table, right?"  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. Part Four

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World"  
  
Part Four  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
  
  
"So, my friend," Captain Jack said, "Cards on the table, right?"  
  
"Fine," Spike said cautiously.  
  
"Ah! You hesitate; that's very wise, very wise indeed. Look before leaping into something that might very well turn up fishy. But let me tell you, mate, I think we can strike a bargain to benefit both of us."  
  
"All right, then, if we're going to be so bleeding honest, tell me this—what are you up to?" Spike asked bluntly. "You've got a scheme in mind, I can see that. You planned to come here from the first moment we met. What do you want?"  
  
Jack's black eyes reflected the lamp's tiny point of flame, and for once his expression was serious, even grim.   
  
"I want my ship back," he answered.  
  
"What ship?"  
  
"My ship. The Black Pearl. Stolen away, mate, stolen away, by knavish, craven, sneaking, false, cold-hearted scoundrels. How do you think I ended up on that island? Marooned—and not for the first time. It's getting to be a bloody habit."  
  
"How exactly do you steal a ship? I mean, they're a bit large, aren't they? Full of masts, and sails, and whatnot?"  
  
A reminiscent grin flickered across Jack's face. "It's not as difficult as you might imagine, as a matter of fact. Those who are placed in command can be lax, very lax indeed—and easily distracted." His expression grew somber again. "But not me, mate. We'd just made port in Holetown, Barbados. Most of the crew was ashore, spending their last shillings on gaming and wenching, the silly buggers—I don't inquire s'long as they turn up in time to make sail. Me, I was on baboon watch with six men, making her ready. And we were ambushed." His eyes grew opaque and his voice hard. Despite his exotic garb, his mannerisms, and his habitual good humor, all at once Captain Jack looked like a very dangerous man. "Overrun. The ship was stolen away, and us with it. They tried to force my crew to join them, and when they wouldn't, they were put off at various islets to the south—and me on OUR little island paradise. And off they went with my ship."  
  
"Who did? Pirates?"   
  
"Of course they were pirates. Everybody hereabouts is some kind of pirate, mate; we've no use for law and order here. These particular miscreants were foreigners—newcomers. Spanish, mostly; at least they spoke Spanish. But you mistake my meaning, my friend; I don't begrudge an honest robbery. There's one thing, though, I cannot abide."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Jack was very still, though his eyes positively glittered.   
  
"Betrayal, mate. Betrayal. They came for the Pearl, and the Pearl alone, and they didn't find us unmanned through simple good luck."  
  
"Someone sold you out, you mean?"  
  
Jack's coat hung over the back of his chair; he reached into its deepest pocket and drew out a strange bundle of greenish figured cloth, curiously torn, which he unfolded and placed between them.   
  
"D'you know what this is?" he asked.  
  
Almost involuntarily, Spike pushed back, away from the table.   
  
"It's a goblin sack," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Ugh! They used a goblin? That's disgusting!"  
  
"That's it exactly. This scurvy little demon was planted somewhere on my ship, waiting and spying. When it saw the crew disembark, it clawed its way out and flew off to its master with the news. And on they came without warning, three dozen of 'em; we were lost before it began." Jack leaned forward, his posture taut with leashed anger. "SOMEONE put it there. I've a suspicion who; I know where to find him." His lips curved into something resembling a smile. "And he's going to tell me where they took the Pearl."  
  
"So what do you want me to do? Kill him?" Spike said. "Because, like I told you, I don't…"  
  
"No, no, mate—I respect your principles, I really do." Jack relaxed against the back of his chair again, and now his smile was genuine. He raised his tin mug and swirled the wine within it meditatively. "Do you know," he said, taking a swallow, "I would so much rather see 'im paralysed with terror than dead. Shaking, groveling, and gibbering with fright. Squealing his slimy little guts out, the blistering sea-weasel. No, all I ask is that you do your little party trick, with the fangs and all, and then he'll tell me what I want to know. There's no point going 'round killing people, is there? Unless you 'ave to, of course."   
  
Spike sipped some rough red wine and considered the proposition. It seemed pretty reasonable, on the face of it.  
  
"And what do I get?"  
  
Jack leaned forward again, his face intent.  
  
"What do you want, mate?" he asked. "What do you really want?"  
  
"I want to go home," Spike responded without hesitation. "Back to my own time and place. I've got unfinished business to take care of. People who—who need me. But that's not possible."  
  
Jack's gold embellished teeth glinted in the dim lamplight. "It's not PROBABLE, perhaps. But you'd be surprised at what's actually possible, even for common mortal like myself." He unhooked the compass he kept fastened to his belt, and placed it on the table between them. "'ave a look at this."  
  
Spike had been wondering about that compass for some time, in point of fact. His vampire senses had picked up an occult emanation from the thing as soon as he drew close to it, something humans might well be unable to perceive. First, he thought Captain Jack himself might be generating some sort of a supernatural buzz, but on getting to know the pirate, he quickly realized that his new acquaintance was emphatically not a demon, werewolf, fellow vampire, ghost, sorcerer, warlock, or other variety of magic user. Jack, just as he said himself, was entirely mortal, if not exactly orthodox in dress, movement, and thought.   
  
Spike picked the artifact up, and turned it over in his hands, examining the outside first. The compass measured about four inches square, with rounded corners, made out of what looked like low-grade silver, quite tarnished. A polished black slab of obsidian took up nearly the entire top of the case. The silver was engraved with the benign, smiling face of a fanciful sun, a pensive moon, four cherubs, puffing their cheeks out to represent the four winds, and various arrangements of stars which seemed to be constellations, albeit unfamiliar ones. The compass gave off a strange, spicy odor, so faint that, again, he doubted that humans could detect it; and his fingers tingled oddly where he touched it.  
  
Spike flipped open the lid. An outer ring bore the normal points of a compass, but nestled within that ring was an enamelled face, richly decorated with odd symbols and figures. Arranged somewhat haphazardly, these included astrological designs, the trigrams of the Chinese I-Ching, and some strange symbols he couldn't identify at all, such as two triangles standing point down, with a three-sided square between them, and a circle with a diagonal line through it. Above the center pin was a startlingly realistic, life-sized depiction of a human eye; the iris was dark brown, like Jack's. Spike stared at the painted face for a long moment. Something else was odd about it…  
  
"It doesn't point North!" he exclaimed.  
  
Jack smiled. "Oh, indeed it does—if I want it to." He reached for the compass; Spike quite willingly handed it over, and then brushed his fingertips together. Jack continued, "This will direct me to any place I want to go, mate. All I have to do is ask. And I'll wager it will direct me to 'any time,' as well, if we put the question properly."  
  
"How the bloody hell did you get hold of such a thing?"  
  
"Ah," Jack said, placing one tar-stained forefinger aside his nose with a wink, "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Think I'll slip out for a stroll," Spike said. He and Jack had sat for nearly an hour in the sputtering lamplight, making desultory conversation over the last of the wine. But Spike began to feel restless—and he noticed Jack sending the occasional discreet glance toward the corner where Yvette lay, too. Sultry breezes wafted through the open window, laden with tantalizing scents of the forest, enticing Spike's senses. Finally, he rose, ignoring Jack's look of surprise, and moved toward the window. "Need to get my bearings, don't I? Be back before dawn. Don't wait up!" he couldn't help adding.  
  
Swinging his leg over the sill, Spike couldn't repress a smile. He was quite aware that Yvette, tucked up in her ostensibly virtuous bed, was not asleep, and in fact never had been since their arrival. Indeed, her heart beat rather fast just now, and its rhythm increased by the minute. Slipping through the window, he heard Jack rise from his chair, and there came a soft intake of breath from Yvette. Well, he'd leave them to it, then. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Spike sped toward the edge of the jungle and passed beneath the dark, fragrant branches of giant tree ferns and palms into profound darkness.  
  
His eyes adjusted to the night rapidly, and soon he could make out the contours of the trees, vines, shrubs, and ferns that rose from the forest floor. With heightened awareness, he stole through lush underbrush, drinking in its moist, green, and strangely seductive scent. Disturbing yet exciting smells met his nostrils, combining a faint undertone of decay with the intense savor of burgeoning life. A sense of freedom sang in his blood, the freedom of the true predator, unconstrained by scruples, morality, or even second thoughts, and for a moment he gloried in it; if his heart could beat, it would be pounding now, and he longed to throw back his head and howl. Indeed, just as the thought crossed his mind, a far-off monkey let off a cadenced, raucous wail, and he had to stifle a laugh.  
  
The jungle swarmed with living things of all kinds. Spike's acute senses caught the sounds and scents of an exotic menagerie—insects, snakes, lizards, opossums, agouti, hummingbirds, tanagers, parrots, a whole troup of monkeys, and even some diminutive but sturdy wild pigs. None of these creatures detected his presence amongst them, and thus none feared him. He felt his face change and his vision grow even keener as instinct took over.   
  
For despite Mademoiselle Yvette's excellent meal, Spike was still hungry. And what he needed now was blood.   
  
  
  
TBC 


	5. Part Five

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets. ABSOLUTELY NO SPOILERS!  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Throughout the night, Spike felt oddly restless, even after a successful hunt, which left his prey confused and wobbly, but alive. He decided to spend a few hours exploring his new surroundings. After making his way through the tropical forest fringing the island's coast, and all the way back to the shore, he sat for a while on the deserted beach, listening to the roar and hiss of the waves, and letting streams of fine, dark sand fall through his fingers. Curiously, and unlike that of the small island where he'd first met Jack, the sand on St. Vincent was slate gray instead of white. He found its muted tone easier on the eye; even the sand in this place was vampire-friendly, he thought to himself, with a half-smile.   
  
The moon had set, and constellations and galaxies glittered against a soot-black sky. Spike leaned against a palm trunk and watched the stars wheel across the heavens. Gradually, the muscles along his spine and across his shoulders loosened, which hadn't happened since—well, since ever, that he could recall. Even as a human, he'd tended to get keyed up; it used to worry his mother something fierce. He had a brief memory of her anxious face as she pressed warm milk on him until his always-sensitive stomach revolted (in those days, the thought of a deep-fried blooming onion would have made him queasy for a week). Of course, neither one of them would have dreamed of adding a dash of brandy to the milk—that might have helped. But nothing ever had done, when he was alive. Strange that here, in this utterly foreign time and place, so alien to anything he'd experienced before, he could finally relax.  
  
Spike let his eyes close and concentrated on the world around him. Tiny crabs, their small awareness brushing his, burrowed near the water's edge, searching for food just as he had done a few hours before. Allowing his perception to widen, he sensed other aquatic life in the shallows, seahorses, conch, lobsters, bigger crabs, and what seeemed to be enormous shrimp. Farther out still were the cool, dim life signs of schools of fish—brightly striped flying fish, puffers, jacknife fish, blue tang, damselfish, red hind, cowfish, blenny, and various types of frogfish—all swimming busily about, quite unaware of his scrutiny. Larger sea dwellers, turtles, reef squid, manta rays, manatees, dolphins, sharks, and more, moved smoothly through the water at a greater distance still.   
  
The beach—the island—the world was unimaginably rich with life. Somehow, having his soul allowed him to feel thrillingly in tune with that life, instead of debarred from it. Although, inevitably, even in these teeming waters he sensed traces of the frigid, familiar sting of of death, as well.  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
  
  
Early the next morning, instinct began to warn him that daybreak neared. Shaking off the strange peace that had overtaken him, Spike rose from the smoke-colored sand, brushed stray grains from his coat, and turned back toward Yvette's house, following his own scent trail through the undergrowth. His thoughts returned to the present, and inevitably the tranquility he'd felt melted away, as consciousness of his immediate dilemma came again to dampen his mood.   
  
He was still out of place, out of time, and facing a very iffy prospect of ever getting back where he belonged. He almost had to laugh, really. To some people—maybe most—the circumstances Spike found himself in would be almost paradisiacal. Here he had no ties, no debts, no responsibilities, an abundance of food, no fear of the elements, and easy shelter. No worries, in fact. An existence of harmony and ease could be his indefinitely.   
  
Who would refuse such a gift? Should he refuse it? Was his arrival here a second chance offered by the Powers that Be? Was this his clean slate, his opportunity to begin again? What if this was his only chance? All of these were good, if unanswerable, questions. He knew quite well what the best course of action was; he should take his time, consider all the factors, and make a calm, rational decision.   
  
But he hadn't had much practice with calm, rational decisions, over his long years. The flat truth was, the only paradise Spike could imagine was a world with Buffy in it. And if there was even the slightest prospect of his getting back to her, he knew he had to try, whatever the cost.  
  
Approaching Yvette's smallholding through pre-dawn shadows, he saw a glint of yellow light from the window and the back door slightly ajar. Jack and Yvette were awake, then. As he stepped from the edge of the jungle, Diablo joined him on silent paws, and strolled majestically ahead up the path to the doorway, tail aloft. On the threshold, he halted and fixed his golden eyes on Spike.   
  
"Had a successful night, have you, mate?" Spike said. "Sorry 'bout the rat I promised you. Perhaps next time, all right?"  
  
With the magnanimous air of a cat who had enjoyed satisfaction in the spheres of both romance and cuisine, Diablo squeezed his bulky frame through the door without further comment.  
  
Spike, too, slipped noiselessly within. Jack sat at the table, clad only in an open shirt and loose, homespun trousers, munching absently on a banana and examining a single sheet of paper by lamplight. Yvette was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Jack glanced up. "'Morning, matey," he said, as if Spike had just returned from an ordinary constitutional instead of an all night hunt, and held the paper out. "You'll never guess what I have here. Yvette can't read herself, but she thought I'd want to give it the once-over. Take a look."  
  
Spike took the paper. It was a roughly printed handbill, written in a curious mixture of English and French, and he found the 17th century lettering rough going until he remembered that a lot of those "f's" were "s's." The sheet read, in bold type:  
  
  
  
"FORTUNE! AMOUR! REVENGE!  
  
Can be had by ALL MEN!  
  
The Mystique of the Illimitable East,  
  
MASTER KOOMAH,  
  
Sees, Knows, Tells, what will Come To Pass.  
  
Any Man who would Cross His Palm with a  
  
Bon Rémunération Will be Rewarded with TRUTH.  
  
By special arrangement with  
  
The Proprietor of Ye Three Merry Dolphins Tavern,  
  
Visits can be made to MASTER KOOMAH  
  
Après Coucher du Soleil Upon any Evening this week.  
  
Pray arrive in Good Time.   
  
No BLASPHEMY, THREATS, or BRAWLING Will be Permitted.  
  
Any Man, whose Good Conduct cannot be Assured,  
  
Will be Put Out at his Own Peril. There will be NO Exceptions."  
  
  
  
An amateurish but striking depiction of a large, glaring eye, with wavy lines apparently meant to be be rays emanating from it, decorated the middle of the page.  
  
"Well," Spike said slowly, "quite a turn-up, isn't it? Think it's genuine?"  
  
Jack snorted. "Of course it's not genuine. 'Illimitable East,' indeed. Why would a seer of such marvelous powers be visiting Kingstown?"  
  
"Loot?" Spike suggested. "That's what your average spiritualist-type geezer is after."  
  
"Believe me, mate, I know that; but magical johnnies have an eye for far greater opportunities than our drowsy little harbor can offer," Jack said dryly. "Here, the great soothsayer will be paid more in chickens and bananas than 'e will be in gold—and that's if 'e's lucky enough to be paid at all. No, the fellow's sure to be a mountebank of some kind. However, it's quite an odd coincidence, wouldn't you say, that this remarkable gentleman arrives just when we do?"  
  
It was odd. It was damned odd. "So what do you think it means?"  
  
Jack leaned his head against the back of the chair. "I think it's a trap, matey; a trap for one of us, or both."  
  
"Most likely you, then, isn't it?" Spike sat down, and stretched his shoulders with a satisfying crack. "How would anyone know I'm here?"  
  
"We still don't know how you arrived," Jack pointed out. "Perhaps it was no accident, after all. And see here—'FORTUNE!' applies to anyone, but 'AMOUR! REVENGE!'? That about covers you and me, doesn't it? See where he 'knows, sees, tells what will come'? That's meant as a tempting lure. It's quite well done, in fact. I take my 'at off to the perpetrators, so to speak." He folded his arms, and his eyes grew distant. "Now, the question is, why was it done, I wonder? Why now? And how? And, last but not least—who's responsible?"  
  
Spike smothered a yawn. "Well, there's one way to find out, isn't there?"  
  
"Exactly my thought. We'll go tonight, then?"  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"We'll need to get kitted out before we venture into town…" Jack began. Just then, the door swung open, and Yvette appeared. She wore a calico gown over her linen shift, with her hair tied up in a colorful bandana, and carried a wooden bucket of water in one hand and a large basket in the other. Spike sprang to her assistance, taking the heavy bucket, while Jack relieved her of the basket and tipped it out on the table.  
  
"Ooh, look at the lovely fruit," he exclaimed, as an assortment of ripe mangoes, bananas, papayas, green oranges, pineapples, and coconuts filled the room with enticing fragrance. "Thanks ever so, sweetheart." He selected an orange, and continued, "How would you fancy dressing in your finest gown, my love, and accepting our escort tonight? We're a bit keen to visit the tavern. We can show Monsieur Spike the many attractions of the town, you and I, eh?"  
  
Yvette clapped her hands, saying, "Oh, yes! That will be delightful!" Her black eyes sparkled. "And so you must help me gather oranges this morning, Jack, and on our way to Kingstown I take them to Madame Gris-noir, and she will pay five shillings, because they are fresh, instead of four!"  
  
"Well…" Jack temporized.  
  
Her face fell dramatically. "Jack! You promised you would help me next time! And it's a whole shilling!"  
  
"Far be it from me, my sweet, to deprive you of a whole shilling," Jack said, kissing her hand. "Of course I'll help you with your harvest."  
  
Yvette rewarded him with a dazzling smile. "Though I think you will sleep under a tree instead of picking fruit," she said humorously. "But at least you can carry the ladder."  
  
TBC 


	6. Part Six

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World"  
  
Part Six  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
Spike woke with a start. After a moment's confusion, he found himself staring up at Captain Jack, who stood over him holding a half-shuttered bullseye lantern. The pirate was now fully dressed in coat, sash, breeches, and boots, with his leather tricorn on his head and the magic compass at his belt.  
  
"Doubtless you've heard this before, mate," Jack said, "but you sleep like the dead."  
  
"Can't accuse me of snoring, though, can you?" Spike responded, sitting up. Since he didn't breathe while sleeping—or so he'd heard—this was a pretty safe assumption. He swung his feet to the floor and stretched. Twilight painted the walls of the bare little room with cool charcoal and violet shadows; obviously, he'd slept the day away. Diablo sat on the windowsill, washing his ears with great attention, doubtless in anticipation of his own night out. Spike looked around for his hostess.  
  
"She's gone off to conduct some business," Jack explained, following his gaze. "Her crops fetch more when they're fresh."  
  
"Crops? She has more crops?"  
  
"Where d'you think all those mangoes and bananas came from, my friend? It's not just oranges—the lady owns groves all 'round this part of the island; quite an entrepreneuse, that one," Jack said, with some pride. "You should see her haggle on market-day; she's a pirate herself, in her way. At any rate, she'll be back later. You don't want to hinder the lovely Yvette's hunt for an extra coin, take my word. So—are you ready for a little expedition, then?"  
  
Spike grabbed a ripe papaya for his breakfast from a wooden bowl on the table and snatched up his coat, reflexively feeling the zippered breast pocket. "Right behind you."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
With the shutter of his lantern three-quarters closed, Jack led the way eastwards, away from the small cluster of dwellings, up a rocky, barely detectable trail. Their path skirted a rushing stream on the right and a steep slope on the left. Since his own enhanced agility let Spike follow his friend without difficulty, he had the leisure to marvel again at the brilliance and clarity of the stars as they popped out, one by one, against the darkening, ink blue sky, still streaked with the ultramarine and lapis of dusk. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd always enjoyed breathing, a quirk that annoyed other vampires—Angelus, for instance, who prided himself on his lack of human traits—but here, in this entirely unpolluted atmosphere, it was a particular pleasure.   
  
"Almost there, mate," Jack called over his shoulder. The winding path grew steeper as they approached a small cascade, whose waters sent up billows of mist as they tumbled over an outcrop of jagged boulders. Suddenly, a cold breath seemed to freeze the back of Spike's neck; he halted in his tracks and stood stock-still. After a moment, he spun around, swiftly and silently, and stared back down the path. Someone or something was watching; he was sure of it. His eyes raked the thick, green foliage, but he saw no sign of movement, and sensed no warmth or heartbeat. A few more seconds passed. Finally, he shrugged, and turned to catch up with Jack. There might be large lizards on this island, he supposed, and his vampire senses might not detect them straight off. Or it could be his imagination. But he didn't think so.   
  
Jack, apparently not noticing his comrade's inattention, flattened against the rock face by the waterfall and edged behind and beneath the torrent, where he slid into a man-sized niche that opened inward. Spike followed, and saw that they had entered into a natural tunnel, apparently untouched by human hands.   
  
A constricted passage led them leftwards for about twenty feet. Spike surmised that they were well inside the steep hill whose slope they had climbed, though he could still hear the gurgle of flowing water. Changing air currents told him that they were approaching an open area. After a few more paces, Jack stepped out of the tunnel and opened his lantern's shutter wide.   
  
"That's better," he said. "Now we can see what we're about." Then he corrected himself. "Well, now I can." Setting the light down on a convenient rock, he gave a graceful bow, saying, "Welcome to my, ah, 'umble lair. Pray make yourself at home."  
  
Spike looked around. "Very nice," he said politely. He'd seen a lot of lairs in his time and he wasn't overly impressed. They stood in a small cave, as such things went, about thirty feet in diameter and roughly circular. Another waterfall tumbled from a fissure near the dome-like roof into a churning pool that took up nearly the entire center of the chamber. This pool apparently emptied through another underground stream, causing the surface to continuously plash and eddy.   
  
Their goal in seeking this place was quite apparent, for stacked against the farther wall was Jack's personal hoard of treasure. Spike saw at least a dozen wooden and metal chests piled on top of each other, and near them stood a riotous assortment of decorative objects. His eyes widened as he recognized quite a few of these, amongst them four very fine blue and white Ming vases, a tall, silver Bengali candelabrum in the shape of a peacock, an inlaid, hammered-copper tray of a style unique to Syria, and a curious pointed ebony stand, fantastically carved and set with mother-of-pearl. Having travelled the entire route of the Orient Express at one time, Spike knew what the last object was, though he would have bet quite a lot—wrongly, as it turned out—that Jack didn't.  
  
"'Andsome, don't you think?" Jack said, catching his eye. "That's a sort of Mohametan hat-stand, believe it or not; when Persian gentlemen take off their turbans at night, they set them on these little racks. Clever, isn't it? Saves all that wrapping and unwrapping."  
  
Frankly, Spike was dumbstruck by the splendor and variety of the collection. Clearly, Captain Jack had an excellent eye. He examined a few less identifiable objects—a gold, pre-Columbian female figurine, a large oblong shield covered with brown and white cowhide—wondering all the while what on earth this trove of riches was doing hidden away on a remote and sleepy Caribbean island. The porcelain alone would be worth millions by the twenty-first century.  
  
"This lot's just trinkets, really," Jack said casually, pulling out an iron-barred chest, and unhooking the leather straps that bound it. "I keep a few pretties 'ere that I'm fond of—as well as some more practical items. You never know what might come in useful sometime or another, do you? 'Waste not, want not,' innit?"   
  
"Trinkets!" Spike exclaimed, fingering a Russian laquer tray inlaid with garnets and tiny amber beads. "This lot's worth a bloody fortune, mate. Or it will be," he added.  
  
Jack paused, his hands on the lid of the chest, and shot Spike a keen glance. "Will it, now?" he said. "That's interesting. That's very interesting."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Spike never knew how long he sat alone on the sand that first night on St. Vincent, almost drunk with a heady sense of the endless motion of the earth, two-thirds liquid and molten within, crowded with living things, swinging through space in an eternally complex dance. Nothing ever really stopped, not even unnatural beings such as he was. Once he had believed that stasis was possible, had wanted to believe it—"Everything changes," ensouled Angel had told him. "Not demons! Not us!" had been his heartfelt cry in return.   
  
But now Spike saw that Angel was right. He had changed, all right; when he looked back at the creature he had been for so long, it was like seeing himself on a distant stage, a silent, gesticulating mannikin.   
  
How had he endured a hundred years going round and round the same millwheel, unquestioning? He remembered—dimly—that the first thrill of Drusilla's touch was exactly like the last. There had been no joy of discovery, no mutual adjustments, no growing old together for them. There had been no growing at all. Looking back, his long life as a soulless vampire seemed arid, empty—dead.   
  
Now Spike could feel himself changing by the minute, and it was as exhilarating as—well, as a hunt, or a great fight. He couldn't wait to see what happened next. Was this what it meant to have a soul, then? This feeling that something earthshaking, something joyous, something that would make it all make sense, was just around the corner? What would change his world next—love? Honor? Or, perhaps, friendship?  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"'Ere you are, mate, take your pick," Jack said. Polished metal gleamed within oilcloth folds as the pirate unwrapped a longish bundle, revealing a wicked variety of exotic weaponry, including Moorish scimitars, Indian kris, elaborately decorated Afgani pistols, and a magnificent set of Persian steel armor, inlaid with gold, including a round shield, a helmet with a pointed top and chainmail sidepieces, and a treacherous-looking axe with a club-like handle. "Choose whatever you fancy."  
  
"Ta very much—but I don't really need weapons, y'know," Spike replied. "All I need's the motivation, and it's 'grrr' and fangs right off the mark. That's what you call a tactical advantage, isn't it? Saves time."  
  
"Well, we don't want to let on about that, though, do we? We want everyone to think you're merely an average fellow. Or an average pirate, at any rate," Jack said, busily arming himself to the teeth. As Spike watched with a fascinated eye, he stowed a dagger in each boot, secured another to his right forearm with a strap, and tucked another beneath his sash; then he hung a baldric over each shoulder, one to hold a scabbard and cutlass on his left hip, and the other supporting a long-barreled pistol on his right. "At any rate, you can't just stroll about Kingstown without at least a sword," he continued. "That would cause unwelcome comment amongst the vulgar. Then somebody'd try to pick your pocket, you'd break 'is arm with one blow, and the jig would be up. The whole town would know there's something unusual afoot—and we want everyone complacent. Especially this Koomah geezer and his mates."  
  
"You've got a point there," Spike conceded. "All right, let's see those scimitars again—quite lovely, they were."   
  
He closed his hand around the pommel of one particularly eye-catching specimen. The sword seemed to quiver within his grasp, and gave a faint but resonant clang as he drew it from its scabbard and whirled it above his head. Even in the dim cave, a shimmer of light ran down the curving, razor-sharp blade. Suddenly Spike laughed. This was beginning to resemble fun.  
  
TBC 


	7. Part Seven

Title: "Funny Old World"  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: An adventure with two poets.  
  
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."  
  
"Funny Old World"  
  
Part Seven  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
"What's next, then?" Jack asked, for all the world like a polite host showing off his hometown's sights to big city visitors. "Captain Bittern's Coffee House?"  
  
"There's a coffee house?" Sounded just like Sunnydale's Expresso Pump. "That's a bit sophisticated, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, owing to the vagaries of, ah, trade, I'll admit there's seldom any coffee," Jack said, "but we can get a decent chop there, if you're peckish."  
  
"C'est trop cher," Yvette said. "Too expensive. We can eat at home."  
  
"My love, we've plenty of gold," Jack insisted. "No need to skimp."  
  
"Therefore we should keep what we have," she retorted, her lush lips folding into a firm line that Spike found all too reminiscent of a certain petite blonde. If Jack thought he was going to win this argument, he was in for a rude shock.   
  
Spike kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot, and watched its trajectory with satisfaction. Swaggering down the middle of Kingstown's rutted main street, side-by-side with his friends, felt oddly natural—just like the old days, really. Only here, nobody was evil, which had to be an improvement. To his right sauntered Mademoiselle Yvette, swinging her hips, dressed to kill in an extraordinarily low-cut red silk gown (which he happened to know had a ladylike stiletto concealed in the bodice). Beside her strolled Captain Jack, who, in addition to his array of armaments, had somehow acquired an amber-headed walking stick and a festive spray of green parrot feathers in his hat. Spike himself wore the beautifully inlaid scimitar he had chosen on his right hip, a dagger, and a delightful weapon whose like he had never seen before—a hand-size single-shot blunderbuss with two wicked knives set along the handle, so that it would still prove a formidable weapon even after being discharged. Not too practical, in fact, but it was such a sweet little piece that he couldn't resist it.   
  
Spike was looking forward to their evening on the town. Beauties of nature and that were all very well, but there was nothing like a crowd for a bit of action. A cacophony of shouted conversation, raucous laughter, and assorted shrieks from the throats of men, women, animals, and, apparently, birds, rang through the narrow streets; permeating all was a stinging miasma of torch-smoke, sweat, mud, donkey manure, roasting meats, vast quantities of wine, rum, tobacco, and cheap perfumes, underlaid with the clean scents of greenery, tropical flowers, and the sea.   
  
The streets teemed with merrymakers already. Without breaking stride, the three of them stepped around a pair of irate citizens who rolled over and over, pummeling each other, blocking the roadway. Staggering across the street in their direction was a burly, almost stereotypically piratical fellow with an eyepatch and a bushy black beard, clad only in loose breeches and a striped shirt, who gulped from a bottle of rum as if it were water. Not unnaturally, since he was clearly unable to see where was going, he stumbled and fell forward directly in front of Jack, and rolled onto his back, blinking upward with fire in his eye.   
  
"'Ere!" the buccaneer growled. Spike couldn't help noticing that he sounded just like Bluto, Popeye's nemesis. Looked like him, too. "Where are you lot off to with this pretty lady, eh?"  
  
"None of your affair, my good man," Jack said, with an airy gesture. "Move along, why don't you."  
  
Bluto shook his head and lurched to his feet.   
  
"Say that again, cockie," he retorted, his good eye squinting evilly. "I'm not quite sure I caught your meaning."  
  
A ragged crowd of inebriates had begun to gather, and appreciative chuckles greeted this remark.  
  
"Show the flag, Spotted Dick!" one of them called. Spotted Dick? Spike thought he'd like to know the story behind that nickname. Or, on second thought, perhaps not.  
  
"I'm asking that you step aside, if you've no objection. The lady wishes to pass. Is that clear enough?"  
  
Their obstructionist threw his bottle violently aside. "Maybe I will, and maybe I won't," he declared. "Maybe I want a kiss first."  
  
"Sorry, mate, not really my penchant, if you follow me," Jack said, with polite regret. "Possibly the feathers misled you. Spike?"  
  
Spike observed the sputtering pirate with a measuring eye. "Think I'll pass; not my cup o'tea, either. And he's none too appetizing either way, is he?" Titters erupted from the onlookers.  
  
"Not you, her!" Spotted Dick bellowed.   
  
Yvette threaded her arm through Spike's, and looked down her nose. "Would I let such as you touch me, cochon? Not on your very best day."   
  
Spotted Dick ground his teeth audibly, and lunged in her direction; stepping forward, Spike straight-armed him with a palm to the chest, sending him stumbling back several feet.   
  
"Step aside, bullyboy," he said sternly. "We want to pass by, and we're passing, right? Now haul your rum-soaked carcass off before it's chopped into messes. Savvy?"  
  
"Listen, little man—everybody knows me, see?" Dick roared, red-faced. "I'm Spotted Dick, the Pirate; I've sailed the seven seas, and killed six men, I don't take orders from landlubbers like you!"   
  
"Killed six men, have you? Sailed the seven seas? Fancy that, now. I'll tell you what it is, you've had too much to drink, mate," Jack said, in an affable tone. "Clouded your judgment, that's what it's done. Because—vulgar size aside—there's one thing I've got that you haven't got."  
  
Spotted Dick glared at him suspiciously. "What's that?"  
  
"A sword, matey." There was a resonant clang, and suddenly the tip of Jack's sword gleamed at the bully's throat. "A sword."  
  
Silence fell on the little knot of onlookers. Spotted Dick stood very still.  
  
"Now, anyone will tell you I'm a reasonable man," Jack continued. "I don't hold with killing to no purpose, and I'm willing to let bygones be bygones—up to a point. So for your own good I suggest you apologize to the lady, and go about your business, and we'll call it quits. Right?"  
  
A growl emanated from Spotted Dick's throat.  
  
"I don't think she quite heard you," Jack remarked. "Again."  
  
"Sorry, lady."  
  
"Pray do not mention it, m'sieur," Yvette said sweetly.  
  
"Now be on your way." Jack lowered his sword, but Spike noticed that he kept a businesslike grip on the pommel.  
  
"We'll meet again, you prancing larrikin!" Despite his scornful words, Dick backed away.  
  
"D'you know, Dick, my lad, I sincerely 'ope not," Jack replied, brushing a speck of dirt from his sleeve. "Your social deportment leaves much to be desired. Shall we go, friends?"  
  
"I'm agreeable," Spike said. "Amusement value's just about exhausted, isn't it?"  
  
"Besides, I am now hungry," Yvette announced.  
  
"Captain Bittern's it is, then," Jack said, turning to guide them across the street.   
  
As he did so, Spike heard an unsteady footfall behind them and whirled to see Spotted Dick lunging toward Jack. Well, this was Jack's show, wasn't it? Better not interfere. Much. Spike extended an unobtrusive foot and Dick tumbled forward over it, to be met with a solid blow on the back of the head from the hilt of Jack's sword. He went down hard.   
  
"If you'll take my advice, you'll study to improve your manners," Jack said to the groaning figure at his feet. "It saves trouble in the long run. A pirate need not be a boor."  
  
"YOUR advice? That's rich, that is. Who are you to be giving Spotted Dick advice, pipsqueak?" Dick snarled, clutching his head.  
  
"I thought he'd never ask," Jack murmured, catching Spike's eye. He assumed a very grand posture. "You, fellow, will have a story to tell your children—assuming you ever find a lady misguided enough to present you with any. You have just survived an encounter with Captain Jack Sparrow."   
  
Spotted Dick's face went white under the layers of dirt, and there were surprised mutterings from the crowd. Bowing gracefully, Jack sheathed his sword, and offered his arm to Yvette. Spike suppressed a grin as the three of them swept off, leaving Spotted Dick to nurse a sore head in the muddy gutter.  
  
Spike took a deep, satisfying breath. This WAS fun. Too many years had passed since he'd visited a burgeoning settlement that was spoiling for trouble. In his travels, he'd seen a hundred half-civilized, frontier towns like this one, rowdy, lawless, and awash with booze, in Russia, Australia, Peru, Alaska, Argentina and any number of territories. Fur-trappers, gold prospectors, emerald miners, cowboys, pirates—they were all the same, whatever the race, creed, or language. Men without rules, without order—and, in the main, without virtuous women—ran riot in predictable ways. He'd seen hair-trigger violence, random fisticuffs, and hordes of muttonheads frittering away every last ha'penny on drink, whores, and gambling. And, soul or no soul, Spike liked it. Anticipation electrified the air; tonight, anything could happen. Despite his lack of a pulse, the blood seemed to hum in his veins.   
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
  
  
Stars had begun to appear in the purpling sky by the time they reached the tavern, a roughhewn, rickety structure, with a sign displaying three sprightly if zoologically questionable dolphins swinging over the open doorway. The ground outside was liberally strewn with inebriated patrons, both male and female. Spike, Jack, and Yvette stepped over the threshold into a noisy, smoky room lit only by a few torches and lanterns. Chairs, benches, and tables crowded the hard dirt floor, all packed with customers. More revelers stood three-deep around the bar, which was a sort of half-room in one corner with iron bars running from counter-top to ceiling—no doubt to protect the merchandise—from whence the ruddy faced host dispensed brimming tankards with practiced speed.   
  
In the opposite corner, the evening's star attraction, Master Koomah, held court before an assemblage of enthusiastic spectators, old and young, shabby and richly (if grubbily) dressed. A tall, thin, rather pop-eyed Hindu, Koomah wore a gaudily embroidered purple silk robe and sported a turban topped with a glittering brooch. Spike thought he looked like a native of India's west coast somewhere, possibly Goa. He sat behind a table covered with a red and yellow striped cloth, a torchiere blazing behind him. A crystal ball was set on a stand on the tabletop, alongside several empty tankards, and, though he was sitting down, Koomah swayed unsteadily back-and-forth (not unlike Jack). As they watched, the seer gestured expansively with his arms, then hurriedly clutched his oversized headgear as it slid sideways.   
  
"Take me next, take me next!" A bright-eyed blonde wench, her face flushed, held out a palm. The mystic waited expectantly. "Ooh, give me a penny, Jamie!" Her companion, a lovesick youth, hurriedly pulled a coin out of his pocket and showed it to Koomah, who gave a slight nod and began to tell her fortune.  
  
"I see a dark man; I see pearls; I see water; a journey over water…"   
  
Now THERE was an original prediction. Of course he "saw water"—the woman lived on a sodding island. And she was standing right next to a dark man. Now that he thought of it, the rounded whiteness of the lady's striking decolletage certainly suggested pearls. She seemed mightily impressed, however, and dropped the coin into Koomah's outstretched hand. Spike snorted contemptuously, and cocked an eyebrow at Jack, who rolled his eyes.  
  
"Charlatan," Jack mouthed. Spike nodded. A remarkably inept one, too, though admittedly the audience was eating the act up. Could this useless git be the source of the enticing flyer they'd seen? Not bloody likely. For one thing, it was highly doubtful that he was literate at all, much less in French and English.   
  
"Seelal!" The seer closed his eyes and began to croon. "Bengat! Toloo, toloo, toloo…" Nonsense syllables, Spike concluded. Through the years, he reckoned he'd heard authentic mumbo-jumbo in about fifty languages, human and demon—and this didn't sound like any of them.  
  
As they watched, Koomah began to sketch mystical sigils in the air with his hands. Now, that was interesting—the sigils were in fact authentic, though the performance was so amateurish that no self-respecting demon or spirit would dream of responding. Still, the fellow had obviously been coached by someone who knew what they were doing.   
  
"Kawaa, sawaa; come to me, spirit of the future…"  
  
As prearranged, Spike and Yvette moved closer to the mystic, while Jack made a quick progress around the room looking for suspicious strangers. Yvette feigned interest in the seer—though in reality she would never dream of wasting the ready on such a thing—while Spike sussed out the crowd. He let his eyes roam across a sea of enthralled faces. Pirates, prostitutes, and relatively honest tradespeople, all races and all colors, mingled freely. He spotted a number of Africans, tall, Nordic-looking blonds, Polynesians, Spaniards, Indians from nearby Venezuela or Suriname, even some Chinese. They had one thing in common, though—they were all drunk. Perhaps he'd been too harsh; conning this lot might not be so difficult.   
  
Suddenly Spike froze. There it was again, that icy tingle on the back of his neck. Someone was watching him—and that someone wasn't human. Cautiously, he let himself sniff the air, his enhanced senses sorting through the already familiar aromas of tavern, flesh, and the sea.   
  
"Stone the crows," he murmured to himself.   
  
There it was, that cold, slightly metallic smell—the smell of blood, and of evil. Vampires.  
  
But where? He cast a careful glance around from the corner of his eye. In a room full of ruffians, who DIDN'T look suspicious? One slender, seven-foot Watusi geezer stood aloof at the back of the room; four Chinese men paid elaborate deference to one tiny, elaborately dressed and made-up Chinese lady; a knot of toughs huddled together away from the crowd, probably plotting mischief. Unusual, perhaps, but none of them seemed anything but human.  
  
All at once, Spike noticed a man and woman at the back of the room. They had a peculiar quality of unobtrusiveness, and no one else seemed to notice their presence. Both were heavily cloaked and hooded, and they stood side-by-side, still and silent…just like vampires on the hunt. As he watched, the woman turned to address her companion. With intense concentration, Spike listened until he could just make out the pitch of her voice over the jabbering crowd. She spoke in a girlish, feathery tone, with a trace of huskiness, that for some reason pierced him to the bone. Dammit, there was something so recognizable about it—but what? He KNEW that voice; but how? This woman must have died long before he himself was born…  
  
Died…  
  
Spike felt himself go cold.   
  
Desperately, he tried to make out what she was saying.   
  
"…according to plan…this evening…what we desire…"   
  
The man bent his head to reply; his voice was deep and mellifluous, and totally unknown to Spike.  
  
"Well done, my child. Brava!"  
  
"Thank you." As she spoke, she put back the hood of her cloak with practiced grace, revealing a lovely, smiling face and a mass of ringlets glinting gold in the torchlight. "Thank you, my dear Master."  
  
Darla.  
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
